It wasn't truth, or enlightenment
what made me see angels
and things
Was it? was it?
It wasn't but a low tide flooding it all
It's not truth, or enlightenment
what is making me write these words
It's pure pain speaking, the pattern now I spot
It's terror drowned in doubt - or the other way around
It is not truth, or enlightenment, although it looks so
what makes me run away
It is something I cannot fathom well
The answer must be somewhere else.